


Before Morning Comes

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Caffeine Overdose, Dark, Excessive Drinking, Hockey Player Auston, M/M, Mitch Marner Is Not a Hockey Player, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Depression, Time Loop, Time Magic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17710700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: If you could relive yesterday, what would you change?





	1. Gotta Get Up

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy the peace while it lasts.  
> (you gotta fudge reality a bit for this one; drinking is just for dramatic effect and not actually anything i'd recommend or expect to see in real life)

The bone depressions in his skull form a protective ridge. Inside, a grandfather clock keeps time, the weighty pendulum swinging to and fro. Auston makes sure to maintain its wellbeing, winding up in the morning. He collects a nice rhythm. It chimes at the morning and at night, tying him over. Keeping him grounded until tomorrow.

x

Most nights he’s good about timing his game-day naps. He’s got a comforter thicker than the width of his thighs and a memory foam mattress that’s mother-approved. His internal clock is on time. Sleep hygiene is important in the professional leagues, after all.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally stay up late to celebrate his victories by lapping at beer head at some run down club. Tonight’s a special case: the Ducks have an emergency backup in net. By second intermission Auston has pot two, got an assist, and topped it off with a penalty for high sticking a mangy looking bear of a dude on the powerplay.

They end 6-1.

With many Pacific Division teams still under pigsty management, Zach’s definition of the game being no more than a beer league dick measuring contest isn’t so far off. It’s extra special whenever they get to take cheap shots on net without a slap on the wrist for not playing fair. Makes the beer go down easier and hopefully, the hangover cure not as necessary.

They pick an uptown estate bar with a handsome 60s colour palette to celebrate. It’s fit with rods of pistachio green curtains by the front entrance. Beside the handicapped push button are two lipstick kisses.

Appearances are deceiving; Auston original plan of getting a basket of chilli cheese fries and then calling it a night end prematurely. The pressed garlic wafting up from the greasy picnic-plaid paper stirs up a big appetite. Someone at the table orders the homemade garlic cheese breadsticks; Auston vacuums up two and then makes rounds toward the bar for drinks to help shoot the shit with.

The bar counter's worked up a sweat. Auston puts his hand down on the mantle for a minute and gets the pleasure of experiencing a syrup-like substance that webs his fingers together. It smells smoky, rich even. Could be an unfortunate sweet and sour sauce spill. It suctions the base of the tableware and some surplus from the mug he orders spills over.

The drink goes on the group tab lickety-split (Mo’s cautious about those things now ever since the Chicago fiasco). The bartender is minding a root beer float and four shots with still the courtesy to smile at Auston. There’s a lot of things he could say back, maybe play his cards right and taste test the whole menu. Or, he could just talk about the counter needing a good wiping down.

He doesn’t do either but isn’t that always the case? If he grew roots here word would get around. There’s always a price for an audience with the staff. It’s better to just take the blessings and skim.

So as he leaves the middle-aged gentleman on a close shave. The fringes of his hair wash down the nape, collecting driblets of sweat. His composure tenses, riding on the edge of a frayed rope that keeps getting pulled tighter.

Around the counter bend, he missteps, digging the toe of his shoe too hard. The momentum of his walk carries him forward, right into the chest of another patron. Thankfully, the other body absorbs most of the kinetic blow. They sway together like bamboo just long enough for Auston to recover and find his nose wedged in a collarbone.

His nose wrinkles at the thickening smell of yeast. The other man stinks of it. It rims his eyes, drawing fickle lines of blood in the whites. He pulls back to assert some personal boundaries. There’s no splash on the man’s white t-shirt: no collateral.

“Holy shit,” the man says. The words billow out on alcohol-licked blow. Auston sucks his chest in and slides by.

A hand grips onto his jacket sleeve and tugs him back. “You’re Auston Matthews! Holy shit!”

The movement of the man’s lips doesn’t complete the words just right. They make his dimples pop out.

“Mm,” Auston grinds a hum out through his teeth. He’s hot under the collar. Sweat sticks his shirt flat to him. He wants to sit down, not have a career-long discussion with a fan.

Underpinning the surge of trap music are the wide-eyed youth, a panicked mass of humanity corralled in by bar stools. They seldom part to make room for the two of them. Elbows and knees shove into the curvature of Auston’s spine.

The man shoves a hand down his back pocket. “Can I buy you another drink?”

The huge glass in Auston’s hand is telling. His parched lips haven’t smacked the rim of this mug. The thought of another brews thick nausea in his belly.

“Uh, not right now.” He shoves by the man. “Thanks though,” he calls over his shoulder. The words fight a losing battle with the overhead speakers.

Karma, the pitiful thing, scrapes the meat from his bones in retaliation. He collides with a solid mass in exit and loses what’s left of the drink as it sloshes onto the tile below. The curse he drops could be empty feedback in a microphone. The people in close range definitely come up with a few comments to fan the bad luck with.

It only succeeds in bringing the stranger up close. The bony fingers close in on his right wrist. The hand not on Auston is raking back the untamed locks of brown. The pushed-back look strikes him as more open, daring even.

“I renew my offer,” the man says. “It’s no trouble, not for you.” His eyes are chips of ice, they glint in the seedy strip light spooled overhead.

Auston draws his lips back, pressing out his cheeks to form a neutral smile. “I’m fine, thanks. Have a good night.”

He leaves while he still maintains some good graces. The tangible disappointment from the patron can become a ball and chain if he waits around.

It’s a shame, the boy’s kinda cute. But add to his bio the fan status and he becomes too high maintenance. Auston sidesteps the man to get back on track, finding the team’s table with relative ease because of Willy’s inebriated hyena-laughing. It's a trademark of Leafs' outings, the hockey player equivalent of a designated meeting space for lost boys.

The team’s table of choice is missing a rubber tip on the bottom of one leg. Spills are continuous. Someone keeps throwing alcohol into Auston’s mouth and he only swallows half of it because of a joke Kappy’s made. The bodily uptake gets ridiculously high.

He can’t say no to the beakers of craft beer sliding in front. There’s no occasion, just an outing with friends. His stomach lining will have to cope.

Sometime later in the evening, his teammates squash him into the back of an Uber. His stomach is weighed with stringy cheese of all varieties, ingested with no thought to the diet plan. It congeals with the alcohol, to poor results. The acidic taste rising in the back of his throat is no coincidence.

He retches on the front lawn the second he’s out of the car’s vertigo. The wolf whistles sang out the open back window only continue to jeer him on. His insides are so fucked up. Just managing to avoid doubling down in his own sick is the only thing to write home about.

The elevator patrons clear the second they hear him dry-heaving in the back. A few misfortunate button presses prolong the ride up by an added forty seconds; in that time he pokes and prods at the reflection in the mirror glass. If his bags get any worse they might pull his eyes straight off his face, leaving him at the mercy of his forehead.

The floor jingle startles him into some form of sobriety. It’s the same feeling he always gets when he gets home.

He hangs his laurels in the noose of the condo door: it’s where his accomplishments go to die. Moulding underneath the collection of contemporary furniture, upholstered benches, and etagere bookcase with no items to stock the shelves is pessimism. It’s a cockroach he can’t squash under a million dollar fortune.

The eggshell white walls make the mudroom resemble a padded cell. Adding to the thought is the phone still handcuffed to his fingertips, dead. He thinks it’s some compulsive need chipped in the back of his head to have it in hand; God forbid his social life not walk the runway of a dashboard feed.

He does himself a favour and places the device face down on the first recliner chair he sees.

The leftover coffee in the kitchen pot won’t satisfy the caffeine injection he so desperately needs. Brewing a new pot is too much work. He dumps the stale brew in the sink until the basin is stained a nice hickory colour.

The lone citrus fruit standing vacant becomes his meal. Besides the drinking, the pleasure of cutting a knife through the fruit’s thick skin is unmatched.

Thick clusters of pulp drip down his chin after a single bite. He eats in motion, plopping himself down on the sofa mid-chew. Fisting the television remote in one hand and orange in the other, the slog to find worthwhile entertainment begins. Sportsnet's got the usual analysts talking contracts; with his on the rise its the last thing he wants to hear. The channel surfing brings him to the Arizona Coyotes’ den. He’s unable to tell if it’s a live game or highlights. The remote slips between the cushions and ends further discussion.

He’s not sure if orange juice conducts electricity. His right arm is sparking.

The pull of his eyelids is heavy. He’s in his old pair of slacks, war-painted with grease. He could really go for a toothbrush and half a litre of mouthwash to cleanse his palette of spew. Even napkins; the fruit juice is turning his hand yellow.

He jerks once and then relapses. Back into that infinite abyss of black shmears and radio waves.


	2. Gotta Get Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not weird yet but we're getting there [soon]. I'll be posting chapter warnings in the end notes!

The overindulgence of party favours never comes without a hammering headache the next morning. He cranks one eyelid open expecting to see sunlight striping the cashmere to his right. The beams just reach the home button on his phone. It’s angelic. The whole room appears to be glowing.

Moreover, his head isn’t splitting in two directions. The only twirling inside of his stomach comes from the jar of butterflies escaping their prison, flitting around as Auston’s curiosity stretches thin. The pads of his fingers graze the casing of his phone, following the pattern of ridges that make up the siding. Everything is in perfect focus. The bed sheets help him hibernate. The focal point of it all is the room temperature; the same firefly heat that runs down his back during showers.

He yanks the extension cord out from his phone and flips it in the palm of his hand. It’s fully charged. It opens up to the white sand beaches in the Carribean he visited for the bye-week. The waves are flowing in. White sparkles erupt from the top, glittering in the sun. The contrast in the picture begins to make his eyes sting.

It’s abnormal for his lock screen to be so empty. It happened yesterday too because his phone was on do not disturb for the first half hour. Despite that, it’s a blessing in disguise. No social obligation means he’s out of bed and brushing his teeth at eight-thirty without noticeable difficulty.

It’s a lovely morning, he makes himself over easy eggs and a pot of imported coffee.

As he’s getting cutlery, he sends off a message on his phone. A thank you addressed to Patty and Mo, who probably replaced many of the jugs on the table with water thinking no one would know the difference. He’s grateful now. No going through the motions of vomiting into the toilet because he can’t handle the morning after hard liquor.

He gets a reply but it comes with no notification. That’s when he realizes (again) that his phone is on do not disturb. Yesterday it was because he was sinking hours into rearranging numbers for his contract. He can’t recall any moment in particular that stands out for why he’d intentionally shut himself off this time around.

He turns the mode off and the floodgates burst. He’s back to his scheduled programming. Fork in one hand, he works away at his eggs as he scrolls down his feed. It’s a slow day; he sees repeat videos of Instagram models stroking palm tree leaves and cute animal vlogs.

Mo replies to his message with three question marks in a row. When he enters messenger, Auston can see that Mo’s deleted some texts. The body paragraphs he sent on Thursday about breaking sticks on purpose are all that remains. As for the directions to last night’s bar or game-day pep talk hours before pick up, nothing. It’s strange for Mo to take fault with that. Auston sends his own brigade of question marks and then puts his phone into sleep mode.

He hears the buzzer to his condo go off. On the way over to the door, he drops his plate by the sink, groaning at the ever-growing pile of dirty dishes he swore he already took care of. The intercom is flashing red. He presses the receive call button and speaks right into the receiver.

“Yes?”

“Yo, took you long enough. You ready?” It’s Willy, chipper as always. An elasticity in his voice wobble with each word. Auston’s surprised he can even speak after the number the drinks did to him.

“Hey.” Auston rubs his cheek with the back of his hand. “Did’ju forget somehing?”

“We’re going to be late for practice dude.”

“Practice?” Auston scratches at his beard. “It’s Saturday.”

“It’s Friday?”

He leaves Willy hanging and fishes his phone back out. Sure enough, it’s there on his lock screen. The teeny white letters match the background image perfectly. If he wasn’t looking, he wouldn’t have seen them.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit.”

“Wake up late?” Willy guesses. “Here, let me up and I’ll help.”

The plate of eggs he should really rinse down--to keep them from sticking to the surface like glue--are forgotten. He tosses his nightshirt over his head, pulling the first clean article he sees to replace it. A sock bundle is tossed onto the bed. He doesn’t bother will formality and shirks up a pair of sweatpants. Willy arrives and gets a duffle bag in the face, half-full of hockey gear.

They make it by the skin of their teeth, spitting out an excuse about bad traffic because of the freezing rain. Willy drives, giving him space to rest his forehead against the cool glass.

If it’s Friday, then what was yesterday? A dream? Could be, but the drops of alcohol haven’t dried on his tongue. He tastes the bitterness mixing with his saliva. Slithering into one nostril is the thick, barbeque smell of the bar counter. All of the coffee-coloured colours merge together, defining streaks of mocha into table legs. The ratted curtains slip through the gaps between his fingers.

His right arm begins to ache. It’s got noise in it, mingling with the hairs. It creates bundles of static, coiling out in spirals. He has to stop thinking after a while.

Willy backs the car up in reverse and exits, popping open the trunk to grab their gear. He sits still, recalibrates.

Everything runs like clockwork, identical. To what shots go in during practice to the sushi place Willy, Hyms, and Tyler pick out. Using the gift of foresight, he bypasses the shrimp on account of how they gave him a heartburn-like ailment and stuffs his face with greens.

Willy excuses himself to go piss and Tyler’s preoccupied with wiping the table grease off of his phone screen. Zach’s tapping his fork on the edge of his plate, the tiny prongs bouncing off of Auston’s ears until his head rings.

“Stop that,” Auston says with no heat in his words. Zach’s eyebrows jump up. His chopsticks don’t stop prodding at the nigiri.

“What are you even doing?” Auston asks.

“The soy sauce from my rolls keeps touching them.”

Auston rolls his eyes. He keeps his mouth shut, more because of the question pressing at the corner of his mind. He slides closer.

“Yo,” he says. “I think I might have amnesia.”

Zach arranges his chopsticks on the napkin to his right. “What makes you say that?”

“I like, have already lived today. But not? I know what’s going to happen.”

He sees Zach’s eyelids flit shut. “Oh really?” When they open, there’s a strike of excitement.

“Yeah, really. We’re going to play the Ducks--”

“That’s, we know that--”

“--and I’m going to score twice and get an assist, and you board some guy and get a penalty which leads to a breakaway they score on.”

“Okay then,” Zach says. “How do you know it’s amnesia?”

“Because I can like, know what happens.”

“So we talked about this last time?”

“That--” The statement stumps him. “No. Not really.”

“That...doesn’t follow linear time.”

“So what do you call it?”

“Well, it’s not amnesia. That’s about forgetting. I guess I’d use deja-vu?”

Auston fliddles with his straw, twirling the stripes candy-cane pattern around until it looks like a pinwheel. “I guess,”

Zach pats his back hard. “Go to bed early tonight.”

Auston’s appetite snaps. He pushes his plate forward and taps Zach twice on the knee in thanks. It still looks dismissive.

He doesn’t ask the waitress to box up the remains. He’s got cold pizza from three--no, two days ago. Besides, he can’t stomach much. Everything he deposits inside of his belly sprouts two arms and two legs, crawling right back up his throat.

The first feeling of liberation comes when his skates hit the ice. He’s flying, using up the whole rink to complete a lap before the Ducks emerge from their dressing room. It used to be that he’d grow roots at one of the face-off circles and stretch out his arms. Now, he grinds chips of ice using his blades. He picks up a few pucks from the bench and tosses them to spectators pressing their faces up against the glasses.

Last time he played the game as if there was a gun cocked on his hip. He then learned it wasn’t exactly unnecessary given the opponent’s lack of effort. He doesn’t make the same mistake.

The blow of the whistle begins the Ducks’ slow death. He opens them up like a virgin on her wedding night, siphoning off the crowd’s jeers. By the end of the first period, he’s heard the goal song twice. One wrap around and a slapshot that went off as a thundercracker.

The Ducks are hands-tied and pants down. With an emergency in, they can’t pull the man when Auston gets his hatty. Their defences cave in not only by the motions of the Leafs forwards by the dome of blue and white knocking at the door. The Ducks’ hiccups on the ice become turnovers, their shots on net laughable (besides for the one Auston remembers sliding through Freddie’s five-hole which happens again; being on the bench, he is unable to stop it).

It’s everything a recreation should be and more: a game that goes out like good sex, with a bang. The team laps up compliments as they reenter the dressing room after the salute to the fans. Everyone’s looking got something to celebrate. It’s only natural the first topic of conversation floats to the bar.

He has a decision to make, sitting in his stall. If the game taught him anything it’s that whatever he’s going through isn’t the typical deja-vu. What exactly it is though, he’s not sure. He could just head home and knock himself out with tape review. But then Willy’s on his lap and all eyes are on him. It’d be a bummer to decline.

The noxious twist of flashing colours brings the place into view. The place with the notorious green curtains he still doesn’t know the name of. Trays of drink slug by. The walls are drenched in layers of sweat, cobwebs filling the corners. Everything else that day had been so structured, entering back into the underworld never felt so good.

He makes a beeline for the bar counter. There’s an open stool at the right of the muddler and fresh fruit spread. The empty napkin holder blocks his view of the bartender.

He begins to flip his credit card through the gaps of his fingers. The click-clack of his card hitting the wood matches the beat of swaying bodies. As first in line, it’s his responsibility to open the tab; he doesn’t mind the night being thanks to him.

As he’s waiting for the bartender to scan his card, someone pulls up beside him. He glances over and blanks at the face. The teeth give away the fan. They’re still just as distinctive.

“Heya,” the fan says. “Saw you play tonight, you were _incredible_.” He lays the admiration on thick. It’s viscous, mixing into his words as a syrup.

“Thanks,” he says. Auston waits to be asked for a drink. He’s got a much nicer response rehearsed for this time around.

But the fan does not oblige. “My dad took me out to the rink as a kid. I think he thought I’d be some grand superstar. Tough luck.”

“It’s not easy.” He looks for an immediate out. The drink sliding toward him on the counter is it. It’s some Irish whisky and cream mix, something he’ll want to be seated at a booth to enjoy.

“Good to see you again, I gotta--”

“Can I meet the rest of the team? Really fast?” The man bats his big blue eyes at him. Auston’s still wheeling, from both his slip up to the team’s whereabouts.

Neither of them really settle on what the other said, thank God.

“Uh maybe.” He scratches behind his left ear. “What’s a--what’s your name?”

“Mitch.”

He extends a hand to Auston. When Auston takes it, a bolt of energy goes right up his arm.

“Hi, Mitch.” Auston grasps the hand firmly. “You a big Leafs fan?”

“Oh, the biggest. My whole room is just,” he mimics an explosion sound, his cheeks puffing up, “just blue, everywhere. I have at least two of your jerseys.”

“That’s nice.” A bit on the nose too. He looks over his shoulder. “I gotta go. Nice talk.”

“Cool.” Mitch stands up with him. “We going over?”

Auston’s nose forces out air. He leans in close, testing out the volume of his words. “Uh listen. You’re a good guy and all. Super nice.” He claps Mitch’s shoulder. “It’s just, our team’s really needed this. Just a night to ourselves.”

Mitch’s face falls. “I see.”

“You’re really nice though. Maybe some other time.” He throws the compliment out half-heartedly.

Auston can see his smile drop. Mitch’s shoulder angle toward him. “Thanks,” he says. “Next time.” The snark is missing the air quotations to tie it all together.

Mitch looks ready to jump out of his skin. Without the smile his face he begins to look a bit ugly. Particularly with the nose.

Auston turns away. The heels of his shoe stick to the ground. Some gunk, probably. Also notable, Mitch’s chair is stuck out. Auston has to wriggle his way out to freedom from the two centimetres of space keeping them apart.

Back at the table, it’s almost an apocalyptic scene. His teammates' coats are strewn everywhere. The table is freckled with menus. Kappy’s become a weighted blanket holding Willy down.

Auston slides in next to Zach, who looks relatively calm albeit a bit bored. The wings of the menu in Zach’s hands are opened, flattening Auston to the cushion backing.

“Eyo,” Auston greets, drumming his fingers on the bright yellow coaster.

“Hey. Should I get the cheesy breadsticks?” Zach asks.

“Yeah, I mean, just count on giving me two.” Zach’s face mellows out. He knocks their knees together.

“Don’t count on it.”

Auston gets two anyway. He goads himself into getting the basket of chilli fries again on account of how good they tasted but is so filled from stuff his face with bread that he gives up most of it to Willy. He numbers his drinks; goes easy on the alcohol. Neither Mo or Patty put water out on the table. Minus him, it’s still pure chaos.

He’s just the right amount of tipsy when the Uber is called. With five minutes to pickup, Auston makes a quick stop to the bathroom to wash his hands. They’re damp from the glasses’ condensation, the pads of his fingers wrinkled. As he’s leaving, he nudges by a familiar head of scruffy brown hair. He feels those blue eyes on him as he dries his hands with a disposable towel.

 

It’s the same Uber driver, the fellow with wicked smoke tattoos. Apparently a guy with heaps of tolerance. He piles in four drunk hockey players without batting an eye. He also manages to drive straight, an incredible feat when Willy is playing duck duck goose with the empty cupholders.

Auston’s not shitfaced but still blurry enough to get the first stop. The bent stop sign three blocks away tells him to get his coat and mitts ready. He knows this area like he would a third arm. Even under five feet of snow.

As he’s getting out of the idling Uber, he trips. His face smashes into the cement of the curb. His whole world trembles. Behind him, Willy caws. All of the guys get something from it.

Auston sends the finger his way and gets a nice reception. It ends prematurely, as he lifts his head. The left side of his face tingles and he can read from the quiet that he’s injured.

It’s nothing serious, he waves them off and sends the four of them on their way. His quick exit means he’s able to grab the one working elevator on the first floor before it closes. A nice collection of people have built up, so he moves begrudgingly to the back. He doesn’t mind, he’s able to wait out the stops by observing his face in the mirror. There’s a giant flash of red. A couple of teeny pieces of gravel stick to his stubble, wiped off by the back of his hand.

And then, he’s back in the lowly condo. The blinds are drawn, shoes kicked aside from the cubby. A stack of dirty dishes waits by the edge of the sink. There’s nothing living inside of his apartment except him, and he’s barely standing.

He means to make some coffee but that plan’s a bust. The already-in-use pot sits vacant, stale. Cold to the touch. He dumps it in the sink and begins to sort through filters to make another. That’s when his eyes land on the orange. Still standing guard by the cutting board and two dirty coffee spoons.

It’s a better alternative to chugging down caffeine or sugar. He tries prying it open with his fingernails, to no avail. It forces him to open the cutlery drawer for a knife. Once it’s open, he reroutes to the bedroom.

He makes a solid effort to get ready for bed. He tugs the buttons of his shirt through the loops. He yanks his pants down, throws them onto the dresser. He swallows a bite of tangy orange and finishes it up as best he can before he dabs toothpaste on his brush and sticks it in the back of his mouth.

He can’t stop eyeing the scrape; it’s going to be the talk of the dressing room tomorrow.

His feet feel like stones. He struggles to drag himself to the comforter so that he can flop down on the good side of his face. The only light streaming into the room is through the window. The blinds bend it every direction, a stripe following the ridge of Auston’s nose. It’s bright but he’s too lazy to move.

He passes out there, to peach fuzz rubbing in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings I can think of besides a minor injury to Auston.


	3. Gotta Get Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my eyes are hurting so i couldn't give this a proper read-over, sorry in advance for any mistakes!

The world comes back to him in a blur. He’s not well rested, he’s groggy. His head sinks deep in the pillow, swimming in downy feathers. Instead of finding himself stretched out on the comforter, he’s under the covers. Tucked in like a baby in its bassinet.

The first thing he does is check his phone. Laughing back at him is the date. Friday, February 4. Still Friday. Still on do not disturb. It’s the second loop and shit’s fucked. Joining in on the party is Auston’s whole right arm, which pricks. An empty electrical current is frying the nerve endings in his fingers.

He throws his phone across the room. His hands drag down his face.

He’s going to fuck this Friday in the mouth.

He brushes his teeth so hard that the bristle scratch his gums. He’s spitting up blood. It colours the sink basin in little drops and it looks so much like the grit pattern from his face last night. The same pattern now rid from his face without a trace. Despite remembering the bolt of pain from smacking his face into cement, nothing is there to prove it ever happened.

It’s too much work to fill his body with protein, even when he knows he’s in desperate need of it. He cracks open a box of red berry cereal and fills a giant bowl to the rim. He’s out of skim milk and uses chocolate instead. It hardly brings him any joy. It’s a slog to finish what he pours.

Twelve after on the dot, he hears the buzzer go off. He hurries over to answer.

“What?” he speaks into the receiver.

“Yo, took you long enough. You ready?” Willy’s voice smiles. Auston lets him through without replying. He lets the green button do the talking for him.

His gear bag is ready to go, with an extra pair of socks and a towel he knows Zaits will need after spilling conditioner down one side. He’s had to witness it two times. He’s had to hear him complain two times.

The car drive is quite. No radio plays in the background to fill the void, just the sound of the tires flattening rock and gravel under its rubber kneecap. He hears the rustle of clothes rubbing against the zipper when Willy looks over. Auston’s quiet in the mornings but usually not to this extent.

The smell of arena ice helps clear his head. He laces up his skates in record time and does a solid lap around the rink, hands bare with no stick in sight. Cold air slaps his face. His helmet strap jingles in his ear. He has to get the whistle in his ear to snap out of it and focus on drills. And just like that, he’s back on the grind.

After practice, some of the reporters pull him aside to ask about his strange demeanour at practice. It’s unlike him to have his head in the clouds Any reply he thinks of comes off as loaded. If he says he’s tired the rumours spin that he’s got an injury. If he passes it off the speculations begin. He answers their questions with a question about how the team’s been performing on the road and that’s possibly the best deflection given the situation.

Babs listens in on the scrum and tries to get a word with him. Auston appreciates his concern but brushes off the suggestion to talk about it in his office. He doesn’t know how to explain it without giving them both an aneurysm. Babs takes the answer with grace but Auston knows he’s due for a checkup that evening. He’s dreading it.

For the third time, he sits down in his stall to throw his jersey over his head. Willy, who’s sitting beside him, extends the offer to come with the group to get sushi. All of a sudden, he’s back in the Japanese-style restaurant, fingering the plastic lid on his cup. He supposes he should treat himself, but all he can stomach is water.

His head is somersaulting, replaying images of yesterday which happen to be today. He’s just following the train tracks, on repeat. Beside him, Zach is tapping his fork on the edge of his plate.

Someone’s trapped a clock in his head and it won’t stop ticking. The click of plastic vibrates in his ear. Usually, it’s a very rhythmic sound. Now, it’s tantamount to loud chewing, open mouth breathing, and leaky faucets.

He tosses his cutlery down and lets the noise splice through the table conversation. “Can you stop?” It comes out with more force than necessary.

“What?” Zach asks.

Tyler, who’s toying with his phone, looks up in surprise. The tension prickles in the air, alive.

“Stop that.” His tongue is sandpaper. The words lick Zach on the cheek, who grimaces.

“The soy sauce from my rolls keep touching the nigiri. Keep your pants on.”

“Sorry,” Auston throws under his breath.

Zach lets out a deep sigh. He stands up and pushes his plate forward, walking in the direction of the men’s bathrooms where Willy’s been for an insurmountable amount of time, probably fixing his hair.

Tyler’s staring at him from across the table. His lips are pressed together. Auston passes over him and his judgement, checking his phone for updates. The waitress drops them their check.

Willy comes back with Zach in tow, the latter’s face splashed with water. One of the drops hooks around the slope of his chin and splats on to the napkin beside Auston.

“Hey,” Auston says, a hand of his resting on Zach’s knee. He pulls the man in closer. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you,” Zach responds. “Just a lot of things.”

“Tell me about it.”

Zach’s lips form a small smile. Auston does him one better and pays the check. Willy still has to finish his coffee. He flags down their waitress to get more cream and sweetener to mix in. The smell of caffeine makes Auston feel sick.

They’re in and out quickly. No remains to box up this time around. Auston sticks to the liquid-based diet for a change. Hunger is the last thing on his mind.

They have time to kill before the game. He tries looking up the name of the bar they’ve gone to for the past two nights to figure out what’s so special about it. It’s got three stars. No shining reviews to its name, just an entry in the local paper from five years ago. It’s so mundane he could cry.

No leads, either. He gives up the chase. For now.

His thoughts are scrambled going into the game. His skates can’t seem to find the ice and his knees wobble. He misses his fair share of shots on net during the pre-game. They line up for the anthem and the whole time he’s watching the crowd pass the Canadian flag, impersonating how it waves in the wind outside. The fans that get the flag aren’t listening to the anthem, they’re sucking in the joy of getting to be a part of something. That’s the only thing on their mind and the jumbotron broadcasts it to the whole arena.

He wonders when he stopped playing for the team and started playing for him. When he looks out onto the team, all he feels is an emptiness. It rocks back and forth in his abdomen. He reads off the numbers on the backs of the duck Jerseys until his eyes burn.

The horn goes off and they resume their places, with him at centre ice taking the faceoff. He loses, and the puck flits out between his legs.

None of that mojo from the last two games is there. The connecting and stretch passes miss. He gives away the puck twice in one shift. Then the refs call what is quite frankly a bullshit hooking call and lock him up just after he gets possession. He bangs the head of his stick up on the glass to voice his displeasure.

The Ducks sniff out their weakness. Every offence play by the Leafs ends with them empty-handed, a puck in the back of their net. As Auston skates behind the net in direction of the bench, he hears the air forced out of Freddie's nostrils at the new development. It must be humiliating, old faces opening up the five hole on home ice.

They’re slapped on the wrist, bad. With no hope of a comeback even in the last minute rush, the game ends 3-1 for the Ducks. Naz skates away with the only goal, Brownie the assist. They’re the only ones not getting the stink-eye as the team returns to the dressing room.

Babs chews them out for a half-hearted effort. The whole time, he keeps looking back at Auston. Auston keeps his eyes on the ground, flipping his skate guard in his hand to keep himself occupied. He really doesn’t want to go through a therapy talk. He wants to drink himself to an early grave and get out of this hiccup.

No one is in a mood to celebrate, that’s why the bar they go to shares the same sentiment. Back with the pistachio-coloured curtains and gum under tables, Auston should be right at home. The menu print tickles his vision. Without reading, he knows what he’ll order.

He shuts down the lukewarm conversation starting up in the booth and announces, plain and square “I need a drink.” Hands pat at every available limb the guys can find. They push him in the direction of the counter.

Something comes through on his face: the bartender notices. He’s in the same stained apron, glasses riding up on his head. He takes Auston’s card and creates a group tab. It’s the second time Auston’s paying off his bad attitude with bribes.

He meanders back to the table with drinks in hand. The slosh of the foam makes him sick to his stomach and he has yet to sip. A pulsating sickness scratches at his throat. It’s trying to get out of him, spewing clots of blood.

His shoulder shake. Twice, his hips interject with the roads of free-standing tables. It’s the beginning of bruises that won’t bloom. His hips only bear the markings of up to yesterday. At the last table, he almost tips over the lady’s drink. He’s only got a grizzly reply to give, and it’s incapacitated by the distant look on his face.

He rubs at his eyes to rid them of the blur. Everything’s slick as rain, streaking into a watercolour portrait. Some streaks are more prominent than others; all serve to confuse him. He lets voice be his seeing-eye dog, guiding him in the direction of familiarity.

As he’s in view of the table, he looks back. The whole journey is compressed into a few steps.

Locked inside the circle of heads and shoulders is a familiar head of hair. The name slaps Auston’s tongue back into his mouth. It begins with an M, that he knows. The man’s nape has two distinct beauty marks looking back at Auston. Eyespots meant to deceive, like the wings of a butterfly.

“Ey, look who’s back!” Naz shouts over the music. He’s probably the only one having a good time.

“Hey Auston,” the boy says. The use of Auston’s first name doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey,” he says. It slips out through the gaps in his teeth. “What are you doing here?”

“You know Mitch?” Zach asks. The name clicks in Auston’s head.

“Just wondering.”

“I just wanted to get an autograph,” Mitch says. It holds water. No one on the team questions the reason. His friendliness only arouses slaps on the back.

He must’ve told them something about him. The cozying up makes no sense otherwise. Mitch is smiling like he’s won a bet.

When it becomes clear Mitch isn’t going to leave the table just because he’s there, Auston seats himself. Kappy kicks his knees open so Auston can push into the curvature of the booth. It places him opposite to Mitch, outside of touching range.

Zach slides over. “Hey. Should I get the cheesy breadsticks?” he asks. He moves the menu in front of Auston’s face. The familiar patterns and blocks of text make Auston’s head spin.

“Why are you asking me? You’re going to get them anyway,” Auston shoots back. Halfway through he tries to lighten the tone, but the damage is done. Zach hurt look comes back to haunt him for the second time that day. The one upside to it being Friday forever is that Auston knows it won’t last.

He’d rather have it be tomorrow but you know. Small blessings.

Auston’s bad attitude infects the general conversation. The topic dulls to some back scratching about their play and passing. Auston keeps his head down, lips plastered to the gold rim of the glass he has in hand. Mitch, who was only supposed to get an autograph, stays longer.

He keeps casting these dark looks over the table. They hook into Auston and pull him forward. Mitch either knows something he doesn’t or is intentionally trying to creep him out.

His mind answers for him: revenge. Revenge for being pushed away, twice. It’s not the first case of a fan being upset because they didn’t get an award for their worship: the type that should have died in the embers of puberty.

Then he remembers, on this Friday at least, Mitch has nothing to be upset about.

Mitch humours his staring for a bit, then breaks contact.

“I’ll be right back,” Mitch rolls his head back, “bathroom break.” His hips sashay as he leaves the table. His ass is tight in the jeans. It’s hard to believe Auston hadn’t noticed before.

The denim tapers down the man’s legs. A few purposeful nicks in the kneecap free skin. Up on the waist, the belt loops are buried under the floral-print from a twill shirt. It’s got a lot of give. Reaks of the casual feel.

But it’s not the white t-shirt Auston remembers. Auston stands up so fast the table rocks. He fields several complaints as he climbs over arms and legs, eyes gunning down Mitch.

He’s gratefully for the characteristic saunter of Mitch. It makes it easy to pick him out of a crowd. He wheels by waitresses supporting trays and the fishnet stockings crossed under tables. He keeps crosshairs on the back of Mitch’s neck. No outside distraction enters his field of vision. He snips out the undesirables. All eyes on Mitch, just like he wanted.

The bar makes use of wide open spaces with no half-walls or structures higher than the bar counter to keep people separate. It comes to a close by the bathrooms. A skinny hallway conjoins them to the back. It’s an unfinished section, with wires dangling down from the roof. The mechanisms holding the remaining ceiling panels up resemble an old fire escape.

Mitch is just about to duck inside. Auston lunges forward and grabs him by the wrist. He shucks the boy back until they’re nearly flat chested. Mitch’s heels are sanding the front of the janitor’s room. It’s part of a small alcove separate from the hallway.

“Auston,” Mitch says. His voice becomes deeper than it already is. Auston can see his Adam’s apple bob.

“What the fuck do you know?” He grabs both of Mitch’s shoulders and tries to look big only to have the man laugh in his face.

“You’re cute.” It reaffirms a lot of things. Auston’s anger bursts out of his chest.

Mitch’s wrists are so bony he can feel the muscles straining through his hands. Only once Auston’s as red as a tomato does the man understand the danger he’s welcomed in with open arms. He puts up the first of a few fights, gnashing his teeth and every so often throwing his head back as though to call for help. Auston spins them around using the back of his heel, pressing the man into the bolted door until he deflates.

“Tell me,” he says. The summer bulk has been long since scraped off his bones but he gets a kick out riding the man’s shirt up. The look of shock camouflages Mitch; he’s the same creamy paste colour that’s globing the door behind him.  

Unexpectedly, Mitch goes for the kill. A pair of lips plant themselves on Auston. It’s a quick thing: clinical, professional. Mitch doesn’t have the capacity to look guilty even as the back of Auston’s fingers trace the specs of moisture on his bottom lip.

Auston’s seconds away from flipping out. It’s only because he’s got a public image to protect that he doesn’t get physical.

It’s not the kiss that pisses him off. It’s opening his eyes and seeing the man’s eyebrows curve down. The margin of his lips sealed shut. HIs dimples popping just enough that the ends of his mouth curl. Pleased.

Mitch graces Auston with a second to think. The whole time, Auston’s trying to articulate what he’s feeling. It’s easier said than done: his insides are like rubber in a washing machine, thunking up against the machine’s belly. If he’s not careful, he might throw up.

“Who the--fuck, who do you think you are?” To add insult to injury, Mitch has out the half-lidded eyes. His lips are slick with saliva.

“Stop,” Auston says. The entire conversation is about to go pear-shaped. The red hot boils inside of Auston’s throat continue to pop.

He ends up shoving his bicep forward when Mitch’s lips duck in his direction. The man’s head smacks the door. Dust busies in through the gaps as it rattles. A rotten part of Auston wishes it would do something to change Mitch’s mind. To make him sing.

The opposite comes true. At the first show of fists Mitch caves in. Goes motionless, limp. His chin ducks down and his face shies away under clumps of bangs. Auston raises a hand to wipe away the stalks of hair, the tender gesture replaced by the tight grip he puts the man’s chin in.

“Tell me. Why is it still today? Why are you different?”

“Maybe you're just crazy,” Mitch says, eyes down.

“Don’t fucking call me crazy,” he spits. He likes to imagine it’s a venom that burns Mitch’s skin when it comes in contact. “Tell me.”

“I already did.”

Auston’s hands tense up.

“Listen,” Mitch cautions, “what do you want me to say? I’m just here for a good time.”

“I want you to explain why I keep waking up and it’s still Friday.”

“I’m not a fucking psychologist. How am I supposed to know?”

Auston’s rage builds up like gunpowder in a powder keg. Mitch is waving a lighter right in front of him.

“You look different. You _sound_ different. I see you slip up; this is all some game for you, isn’t it?” Auston says. “You were piss drunk the first time. I remember.”

The barbs on Mitch’s tongue hold his tongue still. The game is up.

“Yeah.” His voice is sticky syrup. “You didn’t care though.”

“Move, please.” A lady with a cheetah-print skirt taps Auston’s shoulder. The position he’s in is incriminating, with Mitch bracketed in by two arms. Auston releases him.

Mitch wastes no time slinking away. Auston watches the glare dance on the print of his shirt with each step. Just as Mitch is about to merge back with the crowd, he stops. His eyes lock on Auston’s, loaded.

“You coming?”

The ease back into anger is instantaneous. The distraction is a passing memory. In seconds, Auston’s flushed pink.

“What?”

“You want to make some new memories? Let me buy you a drink?”

Mitch holds his hand up.

“Think about it. If we’re stuck in this together, why not make it fun?” Mitch says.

Auston’s lips itch. “I don’t fucking think so. You kissed me.”

“I did.”

“I don’t do sexual favours. And I certainly don’t for people like you. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t care how big of a fan you are.”

Mitch’s doesn’t answer. His body quivers--with a laugh, a cry, Auston doesn’t know--before he’s swinging into the sea of bodies. Out of sight, out of mind.

Auston rubs his eyes with his fingers. He’s so fucking done, it’s not even funny. He just wants to go home and take a crack at turning everything back to normal, not play along with this clown show.

He mentally apologizes to the group, forcing his way to coat rack where his jacket hangs. If his wallet was handy, he might throw down bills to cover the costs now that he’s not picking up the tab. John steps in and tells him he can pay the group back later, like the saving grace he is. Everyone else is very nonchalant about his revolving-door style of entrance and exit minus Zach, who’s still pissed.

 

With no team to fill seats, he gets his own Uber. This time the driver is a younger woman with a pearl necklace. She’s all dressed up but with no event to go to. The mascara she has on bleeds a bit on the under eyelid. Thankfully, her own world seems to be falling apart so much that she doesn’t spare him a second thought.

He jumps over the curb he roughed his face up on last time and grabs the elevator going up before it can leave without him. The crowd pushes him to the back. The elevator’s backing is all reflective, casting his face back like a funhouse mirror. His eyes look like they’re slipping off of his face.

He shoulders his way through the crowd when the ding signals they’re at his floor. His key leash is deep in his jean pocket. He had to dig in while standing at the door to find it. Their jingling taunts him. Laughing at him. He’s half a mind to break them for it. That’s when he finds out his wallet is missing.

If he had the energy to care, he might call someone. Maybe cancel his cards, report a theft, check in with the guys and find out if he left it behind. His hands won’t cooperate. It’s easier to push it off to tomorrow. It’ll get done regardless of when he takes action.

If the universe is trying to fuck with him, he refuses to engage. For the first time in months, he throws open the pantry door and hauls out his pot of coffee ground. It’s tucked behind a packet of flour his mother presumptively bought. He doesn’t think twice about letting it fall to the ground as he stomps out into the main floor plan.

There’s a box of Tupperware under the sink with his measuring tools. Installed not three feet away from him is a cutlery cabinet with spoons. Instead of picking either of those reasonable options, he eyes the coffee grounds he scoops into the filter. It’s going to be some strong-ass coffee. He picks up the coffee maker and positions the reservoir under the tap, stopping just as the water rises over the serving line.

He sets up camp in the living room, taking advantage of the corner couch placement to bend his body in two different directions, stretching his muscles until they whine. His room’s been pillaged for supplies, most noticeably his laptop, which straddles his lap, and his phone, which is eating up power from its charging umbilical cord.

Nothing that good is on cable besides the game with the Coyotes, who are pulling a scrappy defence together to hold the lead. A minute of watching them and his eyes already feel heavy.

He opts for Netflix, something disgusting to hold his attention. It’s easy pickings on the menu screen: most of the originals recommended to him are thrillers he’d never touch unless it’s a team outing. They come in handy now, even as he’s rotating between the screen and his burner account’s Twitter feed.

As much as he tries to distract himself, Mitch is that earworm wriggling around, present even when he’s not. It’s sad that alcohol is such a depressant for him or he’d be knocking back that vodka in the storage room closet. If filling his head with sedatives blocks the smiling face out it’d be worth the upcoming hangover. He’s done enough drinking for the night. Instead, he stains the front of his teeth yellow with the cups of coffee he consumes.

He’s in the next day and he makes sure it stays that way. The mugs of coffee don’t stop resting on his bottom lip. He braves his way through the graveyard shift of old infomercials boasting kitchen equipment from the 90s. It all passes over his head.

For how often he complains about having no free time, now that he’s got about eleven hours to kill he couldn’t be more bored. He refreshes his feed again, and again, and again. His Spotify playlist runs out of song titles and starts repeating like a broken record. Again, and again, and again. His throat feels like its bulging from how many yawns he’s holding back.

Around three in the morning, he begins finding mysterious bruises on his arms and legs. From what, he couldn’t say. Probably something he got during a dip of energy when he traced his steps back to the kitchen to bottom-feed off the scraps of the last pot he’s made.

It’s probably unhealthy to be pumping that much caffeine into his system. His heart is fluttering around like hummingbird’s wings, caged by the claws of his ribcage. Standing up rocks his head back and forth. If he didn’t have to go to the bathroom nine times that night, he would’ve planted his ass and stayed put.

Auston’s muscles constrict all blood flow. He’s a miserable lump of skin, slick with sweat. Oh fuck if he’s not relieved at the turn of events, however. When the clock hits seven in the morning, he sticks his middle finger up at the open curtains. It has no recipient but fate will seal and send it where it needs to go.

Dirty dishes crowd the coffee table. Auston looks and smells like death: bangs dropping over his forehead doused in grease and oil. Using the last of his energy, he brings himself to his bare feet and kicks off clothes as he makes one last trip to the bathroom so he can shower.

In light of watching grime swirl down the drain, he realizes just what a mess he is. In seven hours he’ll have to put on a happy face and be the face of a team fundraiser. A formal one at that, with suits, ties, and blazers. Still in just a towel, he raids his closet looking for any ironed or dry-cleaned pieces he can get his hands on. He’s relying on his past self to pick up the pieces for tomorrow.

His body is squeezed of its juices. He’s paper-thin, ready to float away. He can’t stop, not even for a minute. Otherwise, he’ll succumb to the lure of deep sleep. It haunts his every interaction.

Usually, his stomach is a bottomless pit; a black hole inhaling whatever his teeth can chew. Now, he can’t even stomach a piece of toast without lurching forward, mid-gag. A kale smoothie is all he can tip back without vomiting.

Time is both a blessing and a curse. No commitments on his plate means nothing to distract himself from the monotony. His house becomes a prison. Getting into his car would be suicide. All he can do is flatten his palms and right cheek to the cold surface of the dining room table. When he blinks, his eyelashes clump with dust. His nose twitches.

Green residue from his smoothie slump down the rim of the blender cup. Some of the brown particles slip, rejoining the vat of green muck at the base.

Auston watches the swish of green until his eyes close. It’s just for five seconds, as a test. The burning stops: it’s a simple antidote. One taste and he keeps coming back, holding his lids down for longer. His muscles loosen up, slack as slabs of melted butter. It’s no wonder that the final time, kissed by sunshine and the smell of almond milk, he fades away. Out like a light.

**Author's Note:**

> the only thing scarier than a darkfic? a fic without a beta  
> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr if you got any questions or just want to talk!


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